


5 times Stiles wore a tent (+1 time he didn’t)

by ellsaba (vanillawg)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Based on a Tumblr Post, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 10:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10683012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillawg/pseuds/ellsaba
Summary: "Stiles loves that fucking shirt, and he’s gonna wear it, dammit!Cue Derek Hale having a big fat problem. In his pants. Because now Stiles is walking around the loft every other day with at least one shoulder bare because the damn shirt keeps slipping down."





	5 times Stiles wore a tent (+1 time he didn’t)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyDrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/gifts).



> written for ladydrace <3  
> i was absolutely strong armed into posting this. have it, you heathens!  
> ALSO if you haven't read my bakery fic you should, and if you have... i'm sorry. it's not abandoned, honestly.

i.

 

“What are you wearing?”

Stiles looks up from his textbook, highlighter dangling from his mouth. “Hm?” He mumbles around it, then drops it out his mouth. “Why are you in my room?”

And – and there was a reason, but Stiles is fucking _swamped_ in his t-shirt, some ratty grey thing with ‘HE’S NO GOOD TO ME DEAD’ plastered on the front in chipped print, and he’s barely wearing it for all it’s dangling off him. His neck and shoulder are completely exposed, and from how he’s lying on his front with textbooks and notebooks scattered around his bed, Derek could probably look right down his shirt if he wanted.

Which he doesn’t.

“What–” Derek chokes. “Yeah, I.” He turns away from Stiles, stares resolutely at the door. The hinges are rusty and it squeaks a little too much. Someone should oil it. Someone should – and, no, he’s not going to think about oiling things up. “There’s a body. Someone dropped it off in front of the school. They need you at the morgue.”

“Why didn’t you text me?”

Derek grits his teeth. “I did. And called.”

He hears Stiles shuffling, but he’s not going to look. He won’t. He’s strong.

“Oh!” Stiles cries. Derek looks, and Stiles has managed to pull the shirt even further down his shoulder. Derek didn’t even know they made clothes that big. “Oh, man, sorry. I got caught up in–” he waves his arm around, and fortunately it hikes the collar up. “I’ll be there. Do you need a–”

But Derek’s already gone.

 

 

ii.

 

The t-shirt is back.

It’s been a few weeks since he’s seen it, and he’s been grateful for the reprieve. He’s been taking a lot of cold showers, lately.

But.

But he’s _wearing it again,_ wandering around the loft like it’s totally fucking innocuous. Which it’s _not_ , because his neck is right there and it makes something in Derek _want_ , fingers twitching.

Stiles is talking about something, throwing his arms around as he speaks. Scott is nodding along like a bobble-head, and Derek is glaring down at the table. But no matter how hard he tries not to look – and fuck, he tries – Derek is _not strong at all_. Not when that collarbone, pale and flecked, is on show like that, like Stiles has _no idea_ what he’s doing.

And the worst part, he’s pretty sure Stiles _has_ no idea what he’s doing.

“Derek?” Stiles asks, and Derek realizes Stiles had fallen silent.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Derek says, except it comes out “don’t you have anywhere else to hang out?”

 

 

iii.

 

“Why are you wearing that?” Derek blurts.

They’re wandering in the forest, Derek trying (and failing, but he’s not going to say that) to follow a scent. There’s been… something causing havoc in Beacon Hills, with four people already dead (“drowned,” Stiles says. “I bet it’s a kelpie. Are kelpies real? That would be so cool. Terrible, but awesome, dude.”) but they can’t find a single trace. The bodies weren’t found anywhere near a body of water, and it doesn’t look like they were moved. They were drowned – but completely dry.

Stiles gives him a look. “This?” He asks, pulling at his shirt – from the middle, but it gives Derek a show of his collarbones. He shrugs. “It’s cool. I found it at some store for, like, ninety-nine cents. It’s signed. Look!” He steps close to Derek, pulling the shirt up, almost over his head. Derek stares at his stomach, lean, with the hint of muscle. “Isn’t that awesome!”

Derek tries not to choke. “Why would they sign it on the inside?”

“I-” Stiles opens his mouth and shuts it a few times. “I don’t know. But the ink hasn’t faded or anything. Well, you know, the sun can bleach colors, and–”

And Stiles keeps speaking, and doesn’t notice that Derek can’t look away from the exposed skin, or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

 

 

iv.

 

It’s not the only t-shirt like that.

They start appearing all the time – he’s pretty sure, since the day in the forest (and they did manage to find whatever was doing this, “it _was_ a kelpie! Fuck yes,” and send it on its way, which Derek didn’t want to do but Stiles had insisted that they didn’t kill it, and Derek was never going to deny him when he’s wearing _that_ shirt) Stiles has gone out of his way to replace his entire wardrobe with those shirts.

“Why are all your clothes so big?” Lydia remarks, one day, and Stiles just shrugs.

“It’s hot. They’re breezy and comfortable.” And they don’t speak of it again.

They’re stood around the table (and Stiles remarks that they should get chairs if they’re going to hang here all the time, and Derek tells him if he doesn’t like standing he can go home) and Stiles is leaning forward, resting the palms of his hands on the table. His entire chest is exposed, and Derek is pretty sure Peter catches him staring – which, _no_.

Derek can’t even hear what Stiles is saying, and when Peter coughs and gives him a _look_ Derek gives up.

“I’m going to patrol the woods,” he says abruptly, stepping away from the table.

“I – wait!” Stiles says. He chews on his lip for a moment, then: “check the lake. And try not to die.”

Derek smiles, all teeth and no friendliness. “I’ll do my best.”

 

 

v.

 

He doesn’t mean to find it. It’s not like he’s looking for it, or anything. He’s just lost his phone, and when he checks his bed (and he has an actual _bed frame_ now. He’s a well adapted, functioning member of society) it’s just… _there_.

Derek has no idea why he got it – he thinks he remembers having it in high school, though, and wouldn’t be surprised by how worn it is, the once dark green dull and faded, and he’s almost certain when he ordered it they messed up and gave him one about fifty sizes too big.

He uses it to sleep in, when it’s not quite warm enough to go shirtless, which it definitely is now, and he’s gotten _quilts_ and runs hot so he probably won’t ever need it, so.

So it’s not like he’s being nice, when he thrusts it at Stiles and says “I found this. Have it.” He’s just… de-cluttering. Because he’s well adapted and functioning.

And he did wash it before giving it to Stiles – obviously, Jesus – but it pleases him that his scent still lingers, and now Stiles is carrying it.

 

 

(+1)

 

Stiles crashes at the loft one day.

They were out late, hunting for witches (fucking witches, and no one had ever warned Derek about this) and Derek says it’s not safe for Stiles to be on his own with his dad in hospital. And, yeah, fuck witches.

“You’re no good to him dead,” Derek had said, and Stiles had snorted wetly and said, “you’re right.”

Derek was being _nice_. He doesn’t _deserve_ this.

“This shirt is so big, I don’t even need pants!” Stiles exclaims in the morning, throwing his arms about. He’s wearing the shirt Derek gave him, and it still smells faintly of him, and – yeah. He’s not wearing jeans. He can only hope that Stiles is wearing boxers, at least.

Derek growls – he can’t help it – and before he knows it he has Stiles pressed against the wall, leg between Stiles’, nose buried in his neck, breathing in. The smell of him mixed with Stiles’ scent is too much, but it’s not enough, it’s–

“Oh, my God,” Stiles whimpers, and Derek pulls away abruptly.

“Jesus _fuck_ , I-”

“Please do not say you’re sorry,” Stiles rushes out, reaching out and pulling Derek back in. “That’s the absolute last thing I want to hear.”

Derek blinks. Stiles – what?

“You have no idea,” Derek’s voice is low, barely controlled. His wolf is going _crazy_ – Stiles, half naked, _smelling like them_. “Those fucking shirts–”

“Nooo, dude,” Stiles interrupts. “I knew exactly what I was doing. Why do you think I wear them so much? Well,” he tilts his head. “They’re like, fucking great in every way. But also, Derek? You’re not subtle.”

He’s not keeping up. “You knew?”

“Yeah, man! And you gave me your shirt. That’s, like, werewolf courtship or something. I spoke to Scott about it.”

Derek groans. “You spoke to Scott about this?”

“That is, I mean, Scott spoke to me about this, but. Same difference. Anyway,” Stiles shifts his hips, making Derek startlingly aware of how hard he is. “You gonna do anything about this or not, big guy?” He’s grinning.

Derek rocks his thigh, and smirks when Stiles’ grin falls and he moans, head tipped back. He presses his mouth back against the juncture between Stiles’ neck and shoulder, bites and sucks at it. He pulls back, and Stiles whines. “Take the shirt off,” he says.

Stiles stills. “I thought you liked the shirt?” He asks, and his voice is cocky but Derek can hear the slight waver, the slight hesitation.

“I do,” Derek says, and presses a kiss against Stiles’ lips, soft and gentle. “But I like _you_ more.”

Stiles’ smile is sudden and blinding. He takes off the shirt.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](http://www.vanillawg.tumblr.com)  
> also real talk i definitely do not like this fic but sometimes you gotta just *clenches fist* post shit.


End file.
